The Project Gutenberg EBook of Amphitryon, by Moliere

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Title: Amphitryon

Author: Moliere

Translator: A.R. Waller

Posting Date: December 6, 2008 [EBook #2536]
Release Date: February, 2001

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMPHITRYON ***

Produced by Bob Colomb

AMPHITRYON

A play

By Moliere

Translated by A.R. Waller

Amphitryon was played for the first time in Paris, at the Theatre du
Palais-Royal, January 13, 1668. It was successfully received, holding
the boards until the 18th of March, when Easter intervened. After the
re-opening of the theatre, it was played half a dozen times more the
same year, and continued to please.

The first edition was published in 1668.

Note: It is perhaps hardly necessary to refer the reader to Amphitryon,
by Plautus, the comedy upon which Moliere's charming play was, in
the main, based. The rendering attempted here can give but a faint
reflection of the original, for hardly any comedy of Moliere's loses
more in the process of translation.

AMPHITRYON

PROLOGUE

MERCURY, on a cloud; NIGHT, in a chariot drawn by two horses

MERC. Wait! Gentle Night; deign to stay awhile: Some help is needed from
you. I have two words to say to you from Jupiter.

NIGHT. Ah! Ah! It is you, Seigneur Mercury! Who would have thought of
you here, in that position?

MERC. Well, feeling tired, and not being able to fulfil the different
duties Jupiter ordered me, I quietly sat down on this cloud to await
your coming.

NIGHT. You jest, Mercury: you do not mean it; does it become the Gods to
say they are tired?

MERC. Are the Gods made of iron?

NIGHT. No; but one must always have a care for divine decorum. There are
certain words the use of which debases this sublime quality, and it is
meet that these should be left to men, because they are unworthy.

MERC. You speak at your ease, fair lady, from a swiftly rolling chariot,
in which, like a dame free from care; you are drawn by two fine horses
wherever you like. But it is not the same with me. Such is my miserable
fate that I cannot bear the poets too great a grudge for their gross
imper